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    News and Weather: Seven Canadian Poets
    News and Weather: Seven Canadian Poets
    News and Weather: Seven Canadian Poets
    Ebook90 pages28 minutes

    News and Weather: Seven Canadian Poets

    By Brick Books

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    About this ebook

    This anthology cuts into the Canadian poetry scene on a fresh, oblique angle. Included are Robert Bringhurst, Margaret Avison, A.F. Moritz, Guy Birchard, Terry Humby, Alexander Hutchison and Brent MacKay.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBrick Books
    Release dateSep 15, 1982
    ISBN9781771312257
    News and Weather: Seven Canadian Poets

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      Book preview

      News and Weather - Brick Books

      FORWARD

      Here are 7 poets I read and listen to with delight. And envy.

      Louis Zukofsky said that the test of poetry is the range of pleasure it affords as sight, sound and intellection. I'm not at all sure who could append a nickel's worth to that, though I am certain volunteers are legion.

      None of these poets is easy. Don't take this book to lunch with you unless it's a very long lunch in a quiet place. Trust that the poet is not bamboozling you, confounding you for no reason, mixing his syntax or strutting his erudition to make you feel the chump. I can tell you that each of these poets writes in dead earnest, and would rather have no reader at all than a smug, lazy one.

      A small anthology wants a very small introduction. May these seven each win the Irish Sweepstakes, prosper and sing. And you, faithful reader, have a ball.

      August Kleinzahler

      Now winter nights enlarge

          The number of their hours,

      And clouds their storms discharge

          Upon the airy towers

      Let now the chimneys blaze

          And cups o'erflow with wine;

      Let well-tuned words amaze

          With harmony divine

      Thomas Campion,

      Third Booke of Ayres

      Death By Water

      It was not his face nor any

      other face Narcissus saw

      in the water. It was the absence there

      of faces. It was the deep clear

      of the blue pool he kept on

      coming back to and that kept on coming

      back to him as he went to it, shipping

      out over it October after October

      and every afternoon,

      walking out of the land-locked summer,

      out of the arms of his voice,

      walking out of his words.

      It was his eye, you may say,

      that he saw there, or

      the resonance of its colour.

      Better to say it was what he listened for—

      the light along the water, not

      the racket along the stones.

      Li Po too. As we do. And for the love of hearing

      our voices and for the fear of hearing

      our voices and those of the others come back

      from the earth, we refuse to listen but look

      down the long blue pools of air that come toward us and say

      they make no sound, they

      have no faces, see

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